


yes, yes, we are magicians

by redandgold



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: Character Study, Gen, Manchester United, england nt - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-10
Updated: 2017-04-10
Packaged: 2018-10-17 10:24:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10592073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redandgold/pseuds/redandgold
Summary: But whatever you expect, it’s never going to be like that. It’s never going to be like how you dreamed.It’s so much better than that.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [neyvenger (jjjat3am)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jjjat3am/gifts).



> [image prompt](http://68.media.tumblr.com/b0bfe8e8d94da318c473683872afc0c5/tumblr_inline_ompwlsQRh11t5wn43_500.jpg); changing rooms and growing up and all that sort of thing
> 
> [13:44, 3/22/2017] Julija: I DID NOT NEED TO FEEL THIS WAY ABOUT ANOTHER MANC  
> [13:44, 3/22/2017] Julija: what a sweet boy, I can't believe  
> [13:44, 3/22/2017] Julija: it's so nice the way he talks about Wazza  
> [13:52, 3/22/2017] Julija: pokes you with a stick  
> [13:52, 3/22/2017] Julija: write about Marcus
> 
> for julija, scouse light of my life <3

Go on.

The shirt's there for the taking. Clean and red and pristine. Mum's smiling as you reach a hand towards it, all trepidatious and that, like you can't really believe it's yours. You like it, then? your uncle asks, giving you a nudge forward until you've fallen into it, your fingers all tangled up in the cool polyester. Look. The three lions shine bright up at you, welcoming.

Who's on the - 

You flip it over. There's a giant, silver  _ 9 _ embossed on the back, and  _ ROONEY  _ perched atop it, like a crown on a king. This king is nineteen years old and going to the Euros. Nineteen years old and wearing the hopes of a nation around his shoulders like a mantle, head flicked back, the red of England coursing through him.

I love him, mum, you say, and your eyes are wide and bright, even in the flickering darkness of the living room. Dwaine snorts and whacks you on the back of your head.

Come on, then, superstar. Play like Wazza for us.

You grab your ball ( _ marcus's ball _ , it says in sticky black marker and crooked handwriting) and race him outside and there you beat him with a beautiful dip and a powerful shot into the near corner of the net. You aren't on the damp grass of a grey council estate, you're somewhere in Portugal with the sun beating down your back and snatching a winner against Switzerland. Goal scored by number nine, Wayne Rooooney! - Dwaine yells, tackling you to the ground and laughing as you swear at him for getting the shirt dirty.

Later, as you're putting it in the wash, you run a finger over the lions embroidered over the heart. The gold star above winks at you. I want to play for England, you tell it, as serious as a seven-year-old boy who kicks in rubber-soled shoes can be. Your brow is furrowed and your eyes are clear.  

Okay, say the lions. Three lions and one gold star. Okay.

 

 

 

Marcus, mum calls from downstairs. Game's starting.

You take the stairs two at a time and crash into the sofa, nearly shoving Dane off. He's too fixated on the telly to give you much of a earful. England are walking out and you see him near the end, fists clenched and ready to go. It's Wembley and the crowd are already pouring their hearts out, flags rippling in the wind - _England till I die, I'm England till I die_.

Let's go to Wembley some day, you say, optimistic in your youth. Mum looks up. There's lines around her eyes as she smiles. Some day, she says, gives your ear a flick.

The ref blows his whistle and they're - you're - off, white against blue, the heart of football or something like that. Your fingers dig into the ball you're hugging. The ball on the pitch bobs unsteadily at the feet of Joe Cole as he swings it into the box. Your brothers lean forward in anticipation but you're already up, because you've been watching Rooney for so long you know what's coming even before he sidles towards goal.

An arm, a boot, instinct. Rooney hasn't scored in a year but the thing about a striker's instinct is that it never really goes away. You mime the touch of the foot to the ball and pretend it's you jogging away in quiet celebration, you that the ninety thousand are roaring for. Dwaine laughs in delight. Take that, you bastards! Dane's looking at you. Your lad done himself proud, eh? 

You grin all shy. Guess so. The truth is you're playing it cool for the sake of the family (the truth is they all know, anyway, but indulge you this pretence). When they're all gone out for dinner you watch the highlights back and then, only then, you scream as loud as you want. You scream like you're in Wembley, like there's ninety thousand people watching you and your mates. You wonder what the grass there is like, whether it's got pot-holes and kicks up divots the size of your head the way it does outside.

And Rooney. Twenty-one and barely pausing for breath like he's afraid if he stops running he'll stop forever. You wonder what it must be like to be with him, be like him,  _ be  _ him. Listen. Can you hear that? It's ninety thousand people and they're singing your name.

The door slaps out front and you jump, stowing the shirt away guiltily as Dwaine catches you in the act. Dreaming again? 

So what - you stick your chin out defiantly. He laughs.

No, you keep doing that.

That's what kids do, you know, after all. Dream. Chase. Wazza's running beside you, looking for the same thing that you are. You close your eyes. Put on the shirt, lace up your boots. Play.

 

 

 

_ I saw my mate the other day -  _

It's ringing around the stadium and you get swept into it, in all of it, the atmosphere thundering in your ears as you valiantly try to keep up. There's nothing that can beat Old Trafford on a matchday. The club got all the lads tickets and Jesse's sat next to you on the edge of his seat, almost bouncing. He knows all the words. You'd expect that of him.

_ He said to me he'd seen the white Pele -  _

The second half is where they really come alive and you lean forward, your mouth open in a soundless cry that everyone in the ground can hear. Ronaldo's penalty is beautifully executed but that isn't what you're here for. Over there - go on - Ronaldo backheels it to Rooney, who's just inside the box - there's the cleverest shimmy you've ever seen, a quick, flawless change of feet, and - 

The stadium erupts. Just like that. As easy as turning on and off a tap; twist the faucet and the goals come dripping. You see the goal in your head over and over again, filling in for the replay screens that Old Trafford doesn't have. The way his boot strikes the ball. The way it soars over everyone's head and curls into the net. Like electricity. Like fucking electricity.

_ So I asked who is he  _ -

Jesse's grinning at you, his tongue stuck out and wagging. Hey, Rashy. You're almost too wrapped up in your own euphoria to listen. Hey, Rashy. 

It's with an effort that you tear your eyes away from the pitch. What? 

Bet I make my debut earlier than you do.

You snort. 'Course you will, you're miles older.

He shrugs. Yeah, but you've got that - whatever it is. Nods at the pitch, to where Rooney is jogging back to the halfway line, and then turns back to you like he's trying to tell you something without saying it. You'll see.

You jealous, Lingard?

Not a chance. He shoots you an irreverent grin. Just stick to kicking your ball, yeah? Just keep doing that and it's gonna be us down there one day. Us they're singing songs about.

_ \- he goes by the name of -  _

 

 

 

People always think wonderkids burst from nowhere. Like flowers blooming, suddenly, onto grassy hillsides, transforming the green into riotous colour. Magical overnight sensations.  _ Where were you when _ s, as if starting points can be determined as precise as a calculation.

Bullshit, Nicky tells you the first time you meet him. 

His brow is furrowed into a stern line and his arms are folded across his chest. You can feel how in awe of him everyone is; this is one of  _ them _ , after all, and it's a poor fan who doesn't know the story. Bullshit, he says again. You can't win anything with kids. Sells well as a fairy tale, not so much in real life. Don't expect to be remembered after a decent first game. And that's the trick, see. Don't expect. 

You like him, with his hardness and kind eyes, and the way he's gone before. Becks went on loan to Preston for months before he made it, he tells you as you're jumping through hoops on the ground. Gary didn't get a break for years after his first debut. But you can't stop working, even if you think it isn't going to happen. So run.

What else do you do? You run like there's nothing in the world that can stop you, like you're afraid if you stop running you'll stop forever. That's why - that's when you begin to see. 

Don't expect, because people can take away the cloth under your feet, like a magic trick. Or like ink bleeding on wafer-thin broadsheets. Like the group stages of a world cup.

  
  


He comes to see you play, once. It must be a while after 2010, when you'd fallen out of love with him a little bit, the hot flash of the transfer request that still stung your pride.  _ This is United, why would - ?  _ You don't remember why or what game it was. You've never been the type to write about it in your diary (Rooney came to watch me play, o m g) or brag about it to Jesse. What you do remember is: 

Cutting down through the centre and latching onto Keano's pass;    
Twisting away from a defender and then dipping past another one, as if you were made of water;   
Shifting the ball to your right foot and spinning it around the goalkeeper's outstretched arms;    
Wheeling away in delight, burying yourself in the red shirts of your teammates;    
Looking up to find his eyes on you. 

You slow to a jog and your teammates don't seem to notice, too busy yelling like lads. He's looking straight at you, sat in the stands, and you're suddenly struck by how very old he looks, not even thirty yet with all the weight of living around him. He gives you a nod and a trace of a grin. 

You try to find him again later, but he's vanished amongst the half-empty stadium presumably to go do more important things. When you mention it to Nicky in the dressing room you're pretty sure your eyes are wide and gleaming all weird. He laughs.

Hero of yours, then? 

Yeah. I guess so. Isn't he every striker's? 

Not really. His was Duncan Ferguson.

Nicky pins you under that stare where you're never sure what he's trying to tell you. This time, though, you think you get it. I'm gonna be different, you smirk. I'm not gonna put in a transfer request.

He laughs and gives you an affectionate pat on the head. Tell me that again when Barcelona or Madrid come calling.

One day. Maybe you're not there yet, but you're running, and that's what counts. Three lions. One gold star. You feel the grass of the pitch beneath you and pretend that you're floating above it, skimming the air like a skipping stone. 

 

 

 

And then.

_ And then. _

 

 

 

Where is it? - Denmark somewhere. - Who cares? - Two goals! - Look at you! - How d'you even pronounce it? - All grown up! - I'm so proud of you. -  _ Two goals!  _

The conversation is deafening as you try and stumble through it, a gaggle of well-wishers and friends and family and teammates. Teammates - you say the word again, roll it around your mouth like it's as hard to grasp as the name of the team you've just beaten. Teammates. Michael Carrick. Juan Mata. Even Jesse, Jesse who's worked his way into the team all on his own. You reel from the headiness of sharing a pitch with the men you idolised as a boy. Not just sharing a pitch but scoring, winning; you can still feel their arms around your neck.

And  _ then -  _

He's wearing his club suit because he's no John Terry (you smile at that), and he sticks out his hand like you're the one who gets to decide whether to shake it. Congratulations, he says, his face warm, bright like a lamp someone's turned on in the dark. That's all he says. You take his hand and give it a squeeze and you can't bring yourself to say anything. What else is there to say? Wayne Rooney's just congratulated you.  _ He goes by the name of  _ \- 

How was that, then? Jesse winks when you're getting home. Everything you ever wanted?

You hear, again, the thrill of the cheer that rang around Old Trafford when you first put the ball into the net. The way the fans had left the red seats, the same seats you'd been sitting on not ten years ago. Yeah, you tell him, and you think you're going to burst. Yeah. 

 

 

 

Arsenal comes.  _ Arsenal.  _ The club that had beat a side with Giggs and Scholes and Cantona to win the league once, who had Henry and Bergkamp and so many players you would have looked up to had you been born somewhere else. 

Arsenal comes and you go. Once, twice, sold to the man in the red shirt with the number thirty-nine on his back. 

You're so high up you might fall. Nothing can stop this, can top this, you think, surely. Not even nineteen and  _ Arsenal _ . Every player seems to have a kind word for you as you sit on the bench and bury your face in a towel, almost too embarrassed to mumble thanks. 

Dwaine comes to pick you up. Did you know, he says, you're exactly the same age as Rooney when he scored his first league brace? 

You blink. No.

The exact same age, right down to the day.  

You look over and realise that he's biting his lip and looks like he's choking up. You've never seen him cry, not a day in your life. At the next red light you think  _ okay  _ and you reach over and hug him, something you haven't done since you were a kid, still waiting for him to come home so that you could cross the road.

That's all that it is, isn't it. You, him, and a dream so close to coming true you could run your fingers through it if you tried. 

 

 

 

You storm the Etihad like nothing they've ever seen. You storm in and leave Demichelis on the floor and the blue of the stadium fading back into the wallpaper. Manchester is red. Red, red, red. You're twelve years old and yelling your head off because Paul Scholes has just turned the city the colour of blood and heart and fire, only this time you  _ are  _ Scholes, and the shirt on your back is no Christmas present. You're twelve years old and singing. 

 

 

 

_ From Wythenshaw and loves to fight -  _

Listen. Do you hear that? 

_ He's born to play, in red and white - _

The fans, the fans. The ones who turn up every week with their fifty pound gone and their hearts bleeding out onto their sleeves. Old Trafford is rocking and it's rocking because of them, seventy thousand voices,  _ seventy thousand _ , and the great court has seen fit to give you something they think you earned.

_ So listen close, it must be said - _

You earned this. If it wasn't in the middle of a game you think you might fall to your knees and cry. You'd said to Jesse how you'd have liked your chant to be the black Pele because that would've been hilarious, but this is - yours. This is seventy thousand people telling you they believe in you.

_ Like Manchester, Rashford is red.  _

Manchester is Red. Rashford is Red. I ONLY HAVE ONE AIM IN LIFE, you'd written once in school when you were still young and big, capital letters were your way of telling people this was about your soul. AND THAT IS TO BE A PROFESSIONAL FOOTBALLER, AND HOPEFULLY AT MANCHESTER UNITED. 

Well. Look around you, son. Look at the devil on your chest. What was that they said about dreams? 

 

 

 

And then.

And  _ then. _

 

 

 

It's not like anything you ever imagined, right, because it's always better. When you walk into the changing room in Wembley - when you walk into  _ Wembley  _ \- the buzz runs through your skin like a knife. The red shirts hang stark against the dark wooden panelling and yours is there. Right. There.  _ Who's on the  _ \- there's a giant, white  _ 9  _ on the back, and  _ RASHFORD  _ perched atop it, like the crown on a king.

You can hear the announcer going on about the lineups outside. Number nine. Marcus Rashford. Boy from the council estate.

_ Man. _

You walk out and it's blindingly bright and you can see the famous arch through the square of night sky that peeks through the roof. You can see ninety thousand people craning forward to get a glimpse of you. You can see the banner being unfurled at the home end as you mouth the words to the anthem, right in the middle of the red-and-white cross. 

Three lions. One gold star.

You're breaking forward, now, Sterling to your left. You slip the ball to him easy as you'd like. He hits it back; it spins through the air, falls as slowly as a feather. You hit it the way you have always done. The way you are always going to do. 

 

 

_ Oh my goodness! Marcus Rashford! Inside two and a half minutes! the dream coninutes for the teenager! Hits it absolutely right, keeps it down, hits through the back of the ball, beats the goalkeeper at the near post; what a start for the youngster! _

 

 

 

One more dream: 

 

At the beginning of the second half number nineteen comes on. ROONEY above that number, all in white. He comes over to you and gives you a pat on the back, maybe a word of encouragement the way he's always doing with you, but you don't quite hear it. All you know is that you are on the same pitch as him. At the same time. The same game.

He made his debut against Australia as well, someone will tell you later, and you will laugh and maybe your mind will turn to how stars both rise and burn out. But for now - for now the crowd are chanting  _ Roo-ney! Roo-ney!  _ and you aren't pretending to be him in a damp field somewhere in Manchester. You are here.

He blasts it into the roof for the second goal and makes you smile, maybe even brighter than for your own as you run towards him. Goal scored by number nineteen, Wayne Roooooney! - the announcer yells, and you've got your arm around his shoulder and he's got his hand around your neck. 

You jog back to the halfway line. Your face must be shining under the lights, and you wonder if mum's in the crowd, smiling. Let's go to Wembley some day. Rooney rolls the ball to you and you're off again, no  _ marcus's ball  _ scribbled into the patchy leather, no divots and pot-holes in a sandy, well-worn pitch. 

You're nineteen years old and going to the Euros. 

Every blade of grass here is the exact same height. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> \- lbr, like, the whole thing was basically a fictional rewrite of Marcus's [players tribune](https://www.theplayerstribune.com/marcus-rashford-england-national-team/) article  
> \- [MARCUS'S BALL!!!!](https://pbs.twimg.com/media/CwHjro1W8AElQqe.jpg) this kid kills me  
> \- Wazza scores his first Wembley goal in a [3-0 win over Estonia](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1aV-ZlJtQg4)  
> \- Rooney's [goal against Bolton](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ys7VpyRazfA&feature=youtu.be&t=12m55s) in 2008 was pretty  
> \- Wazza was slaughtered after the 2010 world cup and i hate the english press, have i mentioned this?  
> \- Butty coaches the kids at some point; I think it was 2013/14???  
> \- I was going to link to three separate videos but someone's already compiled Marcus's goals against [Midtjylland, Arsenal and City](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OA2QflD2zOg) because they can read my mind  
> \- [Marcus's chant](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GkR7hzlEZ1M) which is actually a bit wank but ehhh  
> \- [I ONLY HAVE ONE AIM IN LIFE AND THAT IS TO BE A PROFESSIONAL FOOTBALLER, AND HOPEFULLY AT MANCHESTER UNITED](https://twitter.com/MarcusRashford/status/851461988777676800) and this is how you KILL ME  
> \- [Marcus's England debut](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ybUlaUp8bQw)  
> \- ok so as I was writing this I was wondering hey if rashford's debut was at wembley how come I wasn't there to watch it? and then only when I'd finished i realised IT WASN'T AT WEMBLEY so this whole last part is bullshit... but i like the narrative so up urs  
> \- England always unveil a three lions banner thing in the middle of the [flag](http://www.whoateallthepies.tv/wp-content/uploads/2011/06/PA-10901979.jpg) they form at the home end and it makes me emotional  
> \- title from [the crookes](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M4xRuJtJmHo)  
> \- thanks for reading <3


End file.
